


in the fragile space between

by Magnolia822



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Denial of Feelings, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Repression, Resolved Sexual Tension, Self-cest, Sexual Inexperience, Sharing a Bed, Sort Of, Soul Bond, Supernatural Illnesses, Touch-Starved, Touching, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), Virgin Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-01 01:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20456483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: After the not-pocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale face another obstacle: a mysterious illness affecting them both. Is it a curse from Heaven or Hell, or is it something more?This is a bonding fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Хрупкое расстояние меж нами](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21000164) by [Varfolomeeva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varfolomeeva/pseuds/Varfolomeeva)

> Thank you to Silly Goose for the beta and thoughts! 
> 
> This fic will be four chapters long; it's all written (just being tweaked), and will be fully posted within the week. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_“There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square . . .”_

“It’s a little on the nose, don’t you think, angel?” Crowley leans forward, catching his elbow on the side of the table out of luck alone, and watches Aziraphale take his final sip of champagne. 

“What?” Aziraphale presses one well-manicured hand to his chest. “You think _I_ made her play this song?” 

“Oh, I know you did it.” 

“But that would be using a frivolous miracle.” Aziraphale lets out a tipsy laugh. 

“Yeah, and you’ve never done that before.” Crowley rolls his eyes. He does, actually, like the song, has done since the ‘40s, but he likes to tease Aziraphale even more. 

The piano player continues, filling the room along with the sound of tinkling silverware and hushed conversation. They’ve been sat at their table for almost two hours and this is their third bottle of champagne. Crowley is suddenly feeling very sleepy, but he also doesn’t want this afternoon to ever end. They’ve fucking _done_ it, fooled Heaven and Hell and all of the incredibly unimaginative lot that fill both of those overrated places. 

Aziraphale is looking flushed and quite pleased with himself. It does something to Crowley’s insides, twists them all up with the longing he’s been trying to repress for the last six thousand years. Crowley is a huge fan of repression; the humans created it, but he took the credit of course, and has used it to his advantage once or twice. He doesn’t think he’s as good at it as he used to be, however. 

The last few strains of the song fade into the air, and Aziraphale looks at him expectantly, just a tad nervously. Crowley realises he’s been staring and sprawls back into his chair, feigning nonchalance. 

“Shall we go, my dear?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Sure,” he agrees. 

The afternoon is warm but pleasant, suffused with the fading light of the golden hour. It makes Aziraphale look even more glow-y and perfect than he usually does, and Crowley diverts his eyes and tries to remember himself. Or at least remember that it’s never going to happen. 

“Tired?” Aziraphale asks as they begin to make their way from Mayfair to Soho. 

“A bit, yeah. Could use some sleep. Stopping time really takes it out of you. Facing down Satan; doesn’t look as good as he used to. A little too red for my tastes. A little too dramatic, bursting out of the earth like that, if you ask me. Don’t know how he got so huge. Maybe he’s been working out. Not much else to do in Hell.” Crowley realises he’s rambling and shuts his mouth with a snap. 

“It was truly impressive, Crowley, stopping time like you did. Thank you. I . . .” Aziraphale looks like he wants to say something else but doesn’t. If Crowley has used repression when it suits him, Aziraphale has cultivated it into an art form. 

Crowley shrugs. “It was nothing.” _I did it for you. Because you asked. Wouldn’t have even thought of it otherwise, I was too fucking scared._

“So you’ll be wanting to head home, I’m sure,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can’t quite determine his tone. It’s a little hopeful, a little wistful, a little worried. He’s clenching and unclenching his fists at his side, not looking directly at Crowley. 

Suddenly, this dance between them is too much. He can’t do this right now. He is exhausted, and he needs a tumbler full of whisky and to sleep for at least a week before he can deal with whatever is going on with him and Aziraphale. 

“Yeah. I guess I should get going. Could use a kip. Maybe you could, too.” He turns back to Aziraphale with his hands thrust in his pockets, skirts around a few oncoming pedestrians. “Call you later?” His head is starting to hurt. A spot of rest would do him good. 

“Oh. All right.” Aziraphale gives Crowley one of his patented ‘everything is fine’ smiles. “Mind how you go.” 

It isn’t until he’s parking the Bentley twenty minutes later that he realises the dull throb at his temples that began plaguing him as he left Aziraphale has morphed into a full-blown headache. He drags his feet to the lift and up to his flat, stumbles inside, and slinks to his bedroom, pulling up the hem of his shirt as he goes. 

Demons don’t get sick. Or if they do, it’s easily dispelled with a quick miracle; Crowley can count on one hand the number of times his human vessel has succumbed to illness. Each of those occasions had been presaged by a time of great stress or trauma: the black death, the Inquisition, both world wars. He figures the almost-end-of-the-world probably counts. Not exactly a walk in the park.

Once undressed, he flings himself onto his cool sheets and snaps his fingers, staring up at the blank ceiling. The pounding in his head doesn’t abate, however; it almost seems to increase until it is nearly unbearable. When he closes his eyes, he sees stars, but not the good kind. He groans and staggers back to his feet, ransacks the loo cabinet to find a bottle of Paracetamol he’s had since the ‘90s. 

“Fucking hell,” he says to himself, downing a few with a sip of water from the tap. “This can’t be good.” 

Not surprisingly, the medicine doesn’t help. An hour later, Crowley is in agony, and worse, now his stomach is in on the fun. He sicks up into the toilet and then lays his head on the cool tile, sweating and wondering if he’s been cursed.

Maybe Heaven and Hell found out he and Aziraphale had tricked them. Maybe they knew all along. This could be retribution: a drawn-out, messy death much worse than the instantaneous oblivion of the Holy Water bath they’d originally planned. And if this is happening to him, what about . . . _Aziraphale_. His stomach lurches again.

Vomiting is not pleasant, especially when one is likely being slowly discorporated by the powers of Hell. Distantly, he hears a ringing sound. At first he thinks it’s his bastard head playing tricks on him again, but then he realises it’s his mobile, which has at some point skittered across the bathroom floor. 

“Aziraphale?” he answers, his voice scratchy. “Are you all right?” 

“No, dear boy, I don’t think I am.” Aziraphale sounds as weak as Crowley feels. 

“Are you at the bookshop?” He manages to heft himself up to sitting. 

“Yes. I just made it, barely. I . . . don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel—” There is a retching sound from the end of the line, and Crowley’s whole body goes cold. 

“Hold on. I’m coming over. Just stay right there.” 

He hangs up without another word and struggles to dress himself and find his keys. His whole body feels like it’s on fire, and he realises he’s feverish, in no state to drive. Reluctantly, he manages to download a ride-sharing app and make it to the ground floor, all the while his heart is pounding in his ears. 

The ride to the bookshop is excruciating for more than one reason. The driver, who is obviously new to London, takes a wrong turn twice and extends the journey by over ten minutes. Every sharp turn makes Crowley’s temples throb with pain. But far, far worse is the gnawing fear in the pit of Crowley’s gut that by the time he gets to the bookshop, it will be too late, and he’ll have lost Aziraphale for good. 

Finally, they pull up to the curb and Crowley struggles out and up the stairs. Aziraphale is not in the bookshop, and a blast of icy fear nearly freezes him to the spot. But nothing is on fire. Nothing is out of place. There is no sign of struggle. Crowley forces himself to calm, pushes down his sickness, and heads for the internal stairs to Aziraphale’s flat.

The door to the flat is ajar, as though someone came through in a hurry and forgot to do the latch. Crowley finds Aziraphale hunched over the toilet, a look of abject misery on his face. It’s such a relief to see him, he almost feels better, but then another roil of nausea sends him to his knees.

Trembling, he reaches out to touch Aziraphale’s shoulder, perhaps seeking reassurance for himself as well as offering it. The angel’s body is warm under his fingers, too warm, but Crowley’s own fever seems to be fading. “Angel, are you all right?” 

Aziraphale blinks at him, bleary eyed. “Oh, I feel utterly wretched. I feel . . .” He takes a deep breath, a look of confusion crossing over his features. “Better, actually. How strange.” 

“I thought for sure you were—” Crowley scrubs his face with both hands and lets out a sigh. 

Aziraphale gives him a knowing look. “You think it has to do with them?” He points up and then down. 

Crowley, who by now is entirely recovered—no fever, no nausea, no headache—sits back on his heels and shrugs. “I don’t know, it’s not like we”—he gestures between the two of them—“can get food sickness. I used a demonic miracle and it didn’t help at all. What else can it be?” 

Aziraphale hums pensively. He looks like he is feeling better, as well, his pale face regaining a bit of colour. 

“You don’t think so?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale stands up and adjusts his clothing. “Did you have any sense, any at all, they were on to you, up there? Because I didn’t, down below. I’ll have you know I gave an impeccable performance, my dear. The Bard himself would have approved. Why else would they let us go?” 

“I don’t know. But it’s pretty demonic, really, isn’t it? Make someone think they’re off the hook and then—bam—horrible, drawn out, messy death.” 

“Not very Heavenly, though.” 

“No, but neither are those supposed angels.” Crowley sneers. If he ever sees that bastard Gabriel again, he’ll show _him_ hellfire. 

“I suppose you have a point. Well, whatever the case, we seem to both be feeling back to normal. Let’s wait and see what happens next before we jump to any conclusions. In the meantime, perhaps you should stay here. Safety in numbers and all that.” 

Crowley, who has no intention of doing anything else, nods and rises to his feet.

“Good. Now, let’s get cleaned up and have some tea. I have some books to consult.”

***

The books in question turn out to be Bibles, then John Milton, then William Blake. Aziraphale reads for hours at his desk in the back room of the bookshop while Crowley kips on the sofa right next to him. He is bloody exhausted and has every intention of sleeping for at least a full day, but he rejects Aziraphale’s suggestion that the bed upstairs might be more comfortable. If Beelzebub and Michael come knocking, he needs to be here, thank you very much.

Sometime later, Crowley feels someone shaking him and opens one eye. Aziraphale is watching him with a small smile on his face, but instantly withdraws his hand.

“What’sss going on?” Crowley props himself up on his elbows. It’s dark outside, but he has no sense of the time. “How long did I sleep?” 

“Oh, twenty-four hours, give or take.” Aziraphale sits primly at the end of the sofa, removes his glasses, and rubs the bridge of his nose. Crowley has the almost irrepressible urge to put his feet in the angel’s lap, just to see what he would do. He doesn’t, but just barely, and instead retracts his feet to avoid the temptation. 

“And? Did you find out anything?” 

“No, unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find anything to illuminate what happened yesterday. I’m beginning to think it was the food after all. Maybe now that we’re cut off from our respective head offices, we’re becoming more . . . susceptible to human ailments.” 

“You don’t mean . . . but I can still do demonic miracles.” 

“And I, angelic. But you’ll note that neither of us could cure ourselves. It could be that our powers are fading with time.” 

Crowley frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of this one bit; he’s fond of humans, sure, most of the time, but he doesn’t want to bloody _be_ one. “Fuck.” 

“Quite.” 

“Well, what do we do now?” 

“I don’t know if there’s much we can do, my dear. We may just have to accept it.” 

“Accept it?”

Aziraphale sniffs. “Do you have another theory, a _better_ theory, perhaps?” 

Crowley runs his fingers through his sleep-rumpled hair and blows out a breath. “I still think it has something to do with our delightful colleagues. Listen, I’ve got to go home to water the plants and get my car. You hold tight and get yourself a snack. I’ll help with the research when I get back in an hour.”

He hasn’t gone more than a few steps beyond the bookshop when it hits: the headache is back, and with it the almost crippling nausea. It is far worse this time, and there is no way he’s going anywhere. He doubles over in pain, dry-heaving and alarming several passersby, until he is finally able to stumble back inside. 

“Angel?” he croaks, his whole body burning up. 

“Crowley,” comes a strangled reply from the back room. 

Aziraphale is on the sofa, curled in a fetal position with both hands on his stomach. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears. 

Crowley flings himself to his knees and puts one shaking hand on Aziraphale’s sweaty forehead. Instantly, his own pain vanishes. 

Aziraphale is staring at him, an expression of shock on his face that probably rivals Crowley’s own. 

“I think I have a better theory, angel,” Crowley says. 

“It’s us.”

***

Two hours later, they are very drunk indeed.

“So, it’s sssix feet,” Crowley says, slurring a little. “Six fucking feet.” That is the distance they have so far determined is the extent to which they can separate before symptoms begin to develop. Anything beyond ten feet is absolute agony. 

“Not very many feet,” Aziraphale agrees. They are back in Aziraphale’s flat, sitting at his table with a mostly empty bottle of whisky between them. Their little science experiment has taken a mental toll as well as a physical one, and Crowley can barely lift his head up from where it’s propped on his hand. 

“So how the fuck are we going to fix this?” It’s not like Crowley minds being close to Aziraphale; in fact he prefers it. But this forced proximity isn’t what he wants. What he wants is another glass of whisky. He pours the rest of the bottle into his glass, splashing a bit on the table. He gives Aziraphale a sheepish look before he miracles away the mess. Their power to perform miracles is still intact, so long as they don’t leave each other’s orbit. Distance seems to weaken their abilities, though so far they haven’t gone farther than twenty feet away from one another. They are planning to test this, but not yet. By some mutual silent agreement they are waiting until the whisky runs out before undertaking more experiments. 

“At least this means we probably aren’t becoming human, after all.” 

“Can you please not look at the bright side right now, angel? I’m trying to mope.” 

Aziraphale looks vaguely affronted. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Crowley.” He pouts and crosses his arms over his chest, which, when combined with his cloudpuff curls, really only succeeds in making him look like a rather sozzled hedgehog. It absolutely shouldn’t make Crowley want to snog him. 

“I’m sure,” Crowley mutters darkly. 

“Well, we can’t figure this out right now when we’re both drunk.” 

“I don’t wanna be sober.” 

“Nor do I.” 

“Could really use some more sleep, though.” It’s past midnight, and Crowley knows Aziraphale rarely partakes of slumber himself. He’s pretty sure he could get away with another couch nap, as long as Aziraphale stays close by. 

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I suppose a little rest wouldn’t hurt either of us. My bed is big enough for two.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. “What?” Aziraphale goes out of his way, on a good day, to avoid touching him. To say the proposal comes as a surprise is the understatement of the fucking millennium. 

Aziraphale’s expression stays infuriatingly hard to read. He stands up, a bit unsteadily. “Come now. Things will look—”

“Don’t say better in the morning.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth closes, and he purses his lips. “Fine. I won’t. But you really don’t need to be so grumpy.”

They are silent as they ready themselves for bed, back-to-back. Crowley miracles himself a set of black silk pyjamas, too drunk to think critically about what they’re doing. What he’s doing. He’s about to sleep in the same bed as Aziraphale. It’s only something he’s dreamed about for as long as he can remember. The sound of rustling clothing behind him, drawers opening and closing, is almost more than he can stand. He digs his fingers into his palms to stop from turning his head. 

Luckily, he’s also drunk enough that his human body doesn’t react in the way it would if he were sober. That would certainly be a bit more _too fast_ than he thinks Aziraphale can handle. He might discorporate on the spot, and then what would they do?

Aziraphale is already in bed when Crowley finally gets the courage to look. He’s wearing what seems to be a tartan nightshirt from circa 1920, which may be the last time he attempted to sleep. 

“Everything all right?” Aziraphale asks. 

“M’fine,” Crowley says. He takes off his glasses, slides under the blanket, and fluffs the pillow behind his head a little more violently than necessary. His head is spinning, and not entirely from alcohol. The whole bloody room smells like Aziraphale, and now he’s close enough for Crowley to feel his body heat as well. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry.” 

“S’nothing to be sorry for, angel. Go to sleep.” 

There is some shifting in the bed behind him, and the light goes out. Crowley doesn’t sleep for a long, long time as he listens to Aziraphale’s breathing grow steady and slow. He can’t help wondering what angels dream about, if they dream at all. Or if Aziraphale ever dreams of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Silly Goose <3 <3 
> 
> No offense is intended, etc.

In the morning, Crowley wakes to an empty bed. He sits up quickly, thinking for a moment it was all a dream, that he isn’t really bound, for all intents and purposes, to an angel, but then a throat clears to the side of him. Aziraphale is sitting in a chair pulled close to the bed, fully dressed. He smiles softly. 

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Aziraphale says, “but I would quite like a cup of tea.” 

“Mph,” Crowley says, falling back against the pillows. 

“Not a morning person, then?” Aziraphale lets out a little chuckle. 

“Angel, do I look like a morning person?” He grumbles, throwing the covers back and miracling himself into his clothes. 

He follows Aziraphale into his cramped kitchen, feeling a bit like a dog trotting after its master. There isn’t much space to move, but he tries his best to stay close enough to Aziraphale so as not to trigger their sickness, curse, whatever it is, while also not getting in his way. He’s only partially successful; there is a lot of sidestepping, elbows bumping and “sorry, sorry” from Aziraphale as he makes tea and toast with jam for both of them. Of course, Crowley doesn’t really like tea, but he takes his cup anyway and sits across from Aziraphale to watch him eat. 

It’s strange. It’s so incredibly . . . domestic. In all of the centuries they have known each other, they have never woken up and spent the morning together. In fact, Crowley has never had a morning like this with anyone. He likes it a lot more than he has any reason to. It’s almost nice enough to distract him from the task at hand, figuring out what the hell they’re going to do about their little problem. 

“So if this is the result of our combined incompetence rather than any infernal plot, we will have the ability to reverse it,” Aziraphale says, wiping the last of the crumbs from his fingers. “We just need to find the right books, the right information to guide us towards a solution.”

“You think it was the switch?” 

“I think that’s the most likely cause, don’t you? Perhaps when we switched back before the Ritz, something went awry.” 

Crowley tries to recall exactly how he’d felt, leaving Aziraphale’s body and re-entering his own. It had been _interesting_ inhabiting Aziraphale’s form for those few hours. Intimate. Certainly tempting, especially as he’d learned something he’d wanted to know since the moment he started desiring the angel, which was really only a few minutes after they’d met. Aziraphale has, in fact, made an effort, of the prick variety. Of course, Crowley has no way of knowing if he has actually used it, either alone or with anyone else. They’ve never discussed it. He isn’t sure he’s prepared for the answer. 

“Crowley, are you even listening to me?” 

“Hmm?” Crowley says. “Yeah, yeah. I hear you, angel.” 

“So you agree?” 

“Er, can you remind me about what?” 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “_I was saying_ that it’s best not to attempt another switch just yet, until we know what exactly went wrong. We don’t want to do anything to make the situation worse.” 

“That seems . . . sensible.” And not altogether undesirable, if it means staying here without having to give a reason. 

“Good. I suppose I should do some more research today, but I know it’s terribly boring for you.” 

“Don’t worry about me.” 

Something else seems to be bothering Aziraphale. He is worrying his napkin with his hands, his eyes round and vulnerable. 

“Angel, you have that look on your face.” 

“What look?” Aziraphale attempts to rearrange his features into a more neutral expression and fails. 

“Like you’ve just been caught giving your flaming sword away.” 

Aziraphale sighs. “Well. I am feeling a bit guilty. The switch was my idea, after all—”

“It was Agnes Nutter’s idea,” Crowley corrects.

“Yes, she wrote the prophecy, but I interpreted it. What if I interpreted it wrong? And now you’re stuck here with me, and I know how you like to be . . . free, to do what you like, not sit around in the bookshop.” 

“When have I ever complained about sitting around the bookshop?” 

“Daily, for the last eleven years.” 

“I don’t complain about sitting around the bookshop, angel. I complain about the fact that you have a bookshop at all and yet blatantly refuse to sell anyone books.” 

Aziraphale purses his lips. 

“Look,” Crowley says, his own hands struggling to keep still. “None of this is your fault, and we’re going to figure it out together. I don’t mind staying here for as long as it takes.” _I love you._ He wants to reach across the foot of space separating them and take Aziraphale’s hand in his own, but he has no idea how to make that leap. The small space between them might as well be the distance to Alpha fucking Centauri. 

“Really?” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, and he’s doing that hopeful smile, the one that makes Crowley think that maybe, just maybe . . . 

He nods and stands, stuffs his bony fingers into his too-tight pockets. “Yeah. You bet.”

Back downstairs, Crowley helps Aziraphale gather his collection of prophetic works, as well as the entire oeuvres of Thomas Aquinas, St Augustine and several other lesser-known religious philosophers whose work titles make Crowley yawn without even reading the text. He almost proposes nipping out to grab some croissants at the new French place down the road, but then he remembers he’s stuck here. Stuck with Aziraphale, at least. He tries his best to ignore the warm, yet slightly panicked, feeling that thought elicits. 

“You want any help?” Crowley asks, trying his best not to loom over Aziraphale’s shoulder. Looming is a demonic specialty, but he’s never really been a fan. 

Aziraphale peers at him from under the rims of his reading glasses. “Are you serious?” 

Crowley nods and grabs a book, _A Treatise on the Lives of Angels and Their Kin_, which at least sounds passably interesting, and flops down on the sofa next to Aziraphale’s desk. 

It’s utter tosh, he realises about fifteen pages in. The author, some fourteenth century German wanker—that century was as miserable on the continent as it was in England—is talking out of his arse. “Listen to this, angel: _And behold, for a demone is always easily known by his cloven feet, of which there might be more than two, and this is the sign of the beast._ Goat feet, Aziraphale. Utter bollocks.” 

Aziraphale arches an eyebrow. “Well, to be fair, you do have scales on yours.” 

“Yes, well, some of us have standards. And really, not so much anymore. They’re mostly just feet now.” He wiggles his toes in his snakeskin boots. 

“Oh,” says Aziraphale with a sad smile. 

“What, are you disappointed?” Crowley’s voice goes up an octave on the last word. 

“No. Well. You are rather lovely as a snake. I do rather enjoy your eyes.” 

Crowley sputters. “I haven’t been a snake in almost a thousand years.” 

“I know. But I wouldn’t mind. That is, if you’re holding yourself back on my account.” 

Crowley rakes his hands through his hair and rubs his palms over his eyes, fighting the urge to reach for his glasses. He isn’t sure what Aziraphale is getting at: does he actually _prefer_ Crowley in his snake form? What, like some sort of pet? And if he likes the eyes so much, why does he so rarely look at them?

“You look put out, my dear.” Aziraphale pushes himself back from his desk. “That wasn’t my intention. I don’t care if you are a snake, is all I meant to say. I know you’ve always been a bit tetchy about it, because of—” He gestures, and in that gesture Crowley can read his thoughts: the Garden, the apple, the screwing over of humankind. “Is that the reason you never change, now?” 

“No. I—” Crowley blows out a breath. “Sometimes I worry I won’t be able to change back. And I like being in this form.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale says it like it’s a revelation. “I’d always wondered.” 

“You never asked.” 

“I didn’t want to get too . . . personal.” 

“Too personal? We’ve been friends for six thousand years.” 

“But . . . there have always been boundaries, haven’t there?” Aziraphale says quietly, turning back to his work. 

Crowley can’t stop thinking about those words, mulling them over in his head as he pretends to read more of the ridiculous book. He doesn’t know why the compliment should affect him so much, should make him want to return it tenfold. If he started to enumerate the things he likes about Aziraphale, he might never stop. 

There are, of course, boundaries. The Arrangement had always been one, a way of justifying their meetings through the years so that neither of them had to think too critically about why they wanted to be together. He, at least, had been forced to confront his feelings around 41 A.D., when a certain rather peckish angel had tempted him to oysters, turning one of the worst days of his existence to one of his best. 

Still, the boundaries had persisted out of self-preservation. Touch, feelings: those were concepts to be strictly avoided. Swept under the rug by both of them. 

So, what now? Crowley finds himself staring up at the ceiling, his eyes growing heavy once more. 

He wakes up to the dull throb of a headache and a coil of nausea in his gut. “Angel?” 

Aziraphale is slumped over his desk, groaning softly. He is asleep, too, which would be strange under normal circumstances, but nothing about this situation is normal. Crowley scrambles off the couch and touches Aziraphale’s shoulder, and the symptoms vanish instantly. 

“I think we have a problem,” Crowley says, looking down at Aziraphale’s soft features. The angel’s bottom lip trembles. 

“It’s getting worse?” 

“I was only on the sofa. And you were sleeping—again.” 

“Bugger.” 

They determine they need to fortify themselves with wine before any additional experiments can take place. Aziraphale has several bottles of something French, old, and delicious in his flat, which is where they find themselves some time later. 

“Three feet,” Aziraphale says tiredly. 

Crowley nods and glugs his fourth glass of red. “Maximum.” 

That is the new distance they’ve determined is the threshold for warding off symptoms. Anything more than five feet is intolerable. Crowley doesn’t think his head can take any more, and so it’s nice to finally be on the sofa next to Aziraphale, sitting closer than they ever have before with only a few inches between them. It feels—settling, somehow, and Crowley isn’t sure if it’s because of their shared condition or the fact that he’s finally allowed to be this close. 

Which is a problem in and of itself, because Aziraphale doesn’t seem happy about their proximity at all. He keeps fidgeting, his fingers tapping against his wine glass. It’s almost as though he’d rather be anywhere but here, and Crowley thinks again of that moment downstairs. 

“I’ve always liked your hair,” he blurts, because he must be drunk. 

“You what?” Aziraphale puts his hand to his head. He looks as shocked as he’d been when Satan burst his way out of the tarmac. So . . . not a great reaction. 

“Nothing. Never mind. What were you saying about . . . something about . . . this?” Crowley gestures vaguely between them.

“It’s possible that there was a certain amount of transference,” Aziraphale says, obviously eager for the change in subject. “Perhaps in the, ah, mingling of our essences.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

Aziraphale fidgets some more, face flushing. “I mean to say, dear boy, that when we switched bodies the second time, it’s possible some of you was left behind, in me, and me, in you. Which would account for the pain when we’re separated, and the, ah, change in my sleeping patterns to match yours.” 

“Forgive me, angel. I’m still stuck on the mingling of our essences.” 

“Don’t be glib, Crowley, this is serious.” 

“I know it’s serious. But can’t you try to find a little humour in the situation?” 

“Very little, I’m afraid.” 

Crowley frowns at him, feeling suddenly that _he_ would like to be anywhere else. It’s painful to realise how desperately Aziraphale doesn’t want this closeness. Sure, the conditions are terrible, but it’s the principle of the thing. He thought, after all they had been through, that it might be different now between them, but that was clearly self-delusion. He rubs the bridge of his nose. 

“Let’s go out, have a late dinner.” 

“Go out? In this condition?” 

“Yes, out. It’s not doing either of us any good sitting around here. And I could use some food. I’m feeling a bit—”

“Peckish?” 

“Yes, if you must know.” 

“Oh dear.” 

Still, it doesn’t take much prodding after that to get Aziraphale to choose a restaurant. They settle on Indian and walk to the restaurant in step, arms occasionally brushing. Crowley wonders for a second what Aziraphale would do if he took his hand, but he thinks that might go over like a lead balloon.

Seating arrangements at the restaurant itself is another matter Crowley hadn’t considered. The tables are just wide enough to make dining uncomfortable, if they should sit on opposite sides. Crowley scans the restaurant, eyeing up a booth in the corner, and gives a nod to the host. “That one over there taken?” 

“Right this way, gentlemen.” 

When Crowley slides into the booth next to him, Aziraphale gives him a nod of mute agreement and picks up his menu. 

“Oooh, this looks positively scrummy,” Aziraphale says. He is smiling now, the tension in his body melting away, and Crowley is glad he made the suggestion. “What will you have? The lamb vindaloo?” 

“Got it in one, angel.” 

“And I’ll have the—”

“Chicken tikka masala.” 

The server approaches quickly: a slim, dark-haired man who gives them a bright smile, glancing from one to the other. Then his eyes focus on Crowley with an appreciative, assessing look. “Are you two lovebirds ready to order?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, looking like he wants to say something, but Crowley claps his arm around his shoulders and gives the man a smile in return as he orders for them both.

“Perfect. And some naan for the table?” 

“Sure,” says Crowley.

The server winks at Crowley. “You two are positively adorable. Back in a tick.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale says as Crowley slowly, and somewhat reluctantly, removes his arm, settling it along the back of the leather seat. “He was a bit presumptuous.” 

“We’re sitting next to each other, angel. What was he supposed to think?” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Aziraphale says. “Sometimes humans can be a bit too familiar for my tastes.” 

“Oh,” says Crowley, thinking of the wink. Aziraphale can’t possibly be . . . “You’re not jealous, are you?” 

“Jealous.” Aziraphale scoffs and flourishes his napkin, placing it gently in his lap. “When he comes back, let’s be sure to get some wine.” 

The rest of the dinner passes without incident, save for several more restaurant patrons giving them ‘oh, so cute,’ looks. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does isn’t bothered by it, which makes his earlier reaction even more compelling. Crowley files it away along with a hundred other moments that have passed between them, suggesting he isn’t the only one with feelings of a certain nature. However, he is also aware that Aziraphale seems to be avoiding any further touches, keeping his arms and legs carefully controlled and out of the range of Crowley’s customary sprawl.

He isn’t sure if Aziraphale has sexual feelings. It wouldn’t bother him; sex isn’t something Crowley has tried, save with his own hand. He could get by knowing that Aziraphale loved him in return; if Aziraphale would let him _touch_ without acting like the powers of Heaven would smite him for it, well, he’d be happier than any miserable demon has a right to be. 

They leave the restaurant and retrace their steps to Aziraphale’s flat. Crowley decides that he isn’t going to be the one to broach the nighttime arrangements, but he can’t quite bite back a yawn. Indian food always makes him sleepy. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Aziraphale says. “You look exhausted.” 

“It’s been a long day.” 

“And who knows what tomorrow has in store.” 

In the bedroom, Crowley miracles his pyjamas on, but Aziraphale insists on changing the human way. 

For the sake of privacy, Crowley keeps his back turned, but after a bit of shuffling and a murmured “blast,” Aziraphale asks, “My dear, would you mind coming a bit closer?” 

He complies, hyper-aware of the angel at his back, a soft brush against him that might be an arm or a plump thigh. He has been inside that body, knows how it feels to inhabit, how its curves take up space in the world. It seems unfair now that he can’t turn and look his fill. _Not unless he wants me to. Not unless he asks._

Crowley is grateful for the darkness. He isn’t drunk tonight, only had one more glass of wine with dinner, and his cock is reacting in a predictable manner. He grits his teeth as Aziraphale finishes changing and the two of them slip into bed, side-by-side under the covers. Crowley adjusts himself and nearly hisses at the touch of his hand. He isn’t sure he’ll survive the night. 

For a while, he thinks Aziraphale may have fallen asleep, but then he feels the shift of the bed, and a warm, faintly curry-spiced breath tickles his cheek. 

“Are you asleep?” Aziraphale whispers. 

“No.” 

“Oh.” 

Crowley sighs. “What’s on your mind, angel?” 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” He trails off again. 

“About?” 

“About what you want to do now that it’s all over. What you would be doing, that is, if this hadn’t happened.” 

Crowley shifts onto his side, facing Aziraphale. He sees the troubled expression, the eyes soft with unexpressed emotion. “You’re not still feeling guilty, are you?” 

“I’m an angel. Guilt comes with the territory.” 

Crowley shakes his head, resists dragging his fingers through those cloud-puff curls. “Gabriel was never guilty a day in his life, and by the way, fuck that guy. You think Sandalphon feels any guilt at all about turning an entire civilisation into pillars of salt? What about Michael? They couldn’t wait to see you in flames, the lot of them.”

Aziraphale’s brows knit together. “I suppose.” 

“And do you know why? It’s because they think they’re right, that they’re following the divine plan. There’s no room for guilt in that kind of thinking. It’s a human emotion, angel.” 

“So what about you?” 

Crowley glances away. Not even they have enough time enough for that line of questioning. “You asked me before about where I’d be if this hadn’t happened. You obviously think you have some idea, so tell me, what do you think I’d be doing, if not this?”

“Oh, I don’t know, travelling the world, using your wiles, tempting.” The words come out in a rush.

“I think my tempting days are over.” It hurts a little to hear Aziraphale give him the old party line. He tries not to show it. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” 

They are both quiet for a while, looking at each other. There is hardly any space between them. Crowley’s pulse is so erratic, if he were human he’s pretty sure he’d be dead by now. _Just ask. Just ask him if he feels the same. If he could ever . . . _

But six thousand years of silence is a hard habit to break, especially given their circumstances. If Aziraphale doesn’t return his feelings, it will make for an unbelievably awkward time until they can finally go their separate ways. Crowley’s chest constricts, and he takes a shaky breath, forces out a laugh. “Well, maybe an odd temptation here or there, for old times’ sake.” 

“We’ll fix this. I promise,” Aziraphale says, and then he rolls over so Crowley can no longer see his face. 

Crowley, strangely enough, falls asleep soon after. He has pleasant dreams for the first time in a while, but when he wakes the images slip through his fingers like sand. All he remembers is a feeling of warmth and comfort, which only grows stronger as he starts to process his unfamiliar surroundings. 

He is, he realises with a start, the big spoon in bed with an armful of angel. Outside it is raining and grey, but the early morning light has begun to filter through the curtains. Soft white-blond curls flutter with his breath, and he inhales Aziraphale’s distinctive scent, wanting to press his lips to the pale skin mere inches away. Aziraphale’s chest rises and falls under Crowley’s arm. The rest of their bodies are snug together, and Crowley is so hard he aches.

Involuntarily, he pushes forward against the swell of Aziraphale’s arse, and a flash of pleasure rocks him from groin to toes. Aziraphale murmurs something in his sleep, and Crowley freezes, heart jackrabbiting in his chest. The last thing Aziraphale needs is Crowley humping him like some bloody incubus. Crowley may be a lot of things, but when it comes to sex, he is all about consent. It’s one of the reasons why he’s never been a huge fan of sexual temptations. He eases his hips away carefully and stares up at the ceiling, silently cursing the situation, but unable to bring himself to let go of Aziraphale completely. 

Many long minutes pass until Crowley is finally able to get himself under control. By the time Aziraphale finally stirs, Crowley has willed his erection away. Aziraphale turns toward him, reaching out and hooking his fingers into the gaps between his pyjama buttons. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, still half asleep. His eyelashes flutter, and Crowley marvels at how long and pale they are. He’s never seen them so up close. 

“Right here.” Crowley’s hand hovers above Aziraphale’s hip, not sure whether to rest there or withdraw. 

“Mmm.” 

Crowley waits, not breathing as Aziraphale’s eyes finally open and land on his. “Oh,” says Aziraphale. His eyes dart down to Crowley’s lips, then to his hands bunching the silk of Crowley’s shirt. “Sorry.” He lets go. 

A searing pain rips through Crowley’s body, and his brain suddenly feels like it’s on fire. He groans in agony, only half-aware that Aziraphale is crying out next to him, and reaches out because if this is the end, he needs this one comfort. As soon as the thought occurs the pain is over, and they are left wide-eyed, clutching at each other.

Aziraphale’s lips are trembling, his blue eyes full of unshed tears. He grips Crowley’s hand like his life depends on it, and maybe it does. 

“Well, this is bloody inconvenient,” Crowley says weakly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Silly Goose <3 
> 
> Wasn't sure I'd get this up today, but here it is. The last chapter should be finished tomorrow. Thanks for reading along! Come and chat on Twitter @Magnolia822, where I talk a lot of Good Omens nonsense.

They look at one another. Crowley waits a beat, not wanting to be the first to make the suggestion.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale seems to recover. “Shall we see what happens if we let go? Just to make sure we aren’t mistaken?” 

Crowley swallows the foul taste in his mouth and nods. “Why not?” 

This time, the pain only lasts a split second. Aziraphale is holding his hand again tightly when Crowley reopens his eyes, the acute discomfort only a fading memory, replaced by an incredible sense of rightness. He wants to get closer, but surprisingly Aziraphale moves first, scooting so that they are almost chest to chest. Crowley’s palm tingles, a delightfully warm feeling where their skin connects. It’s almost as though this thing driving them together _wants_ them to touch. 

“Oh, bugger all,” Crowley says. 

Crowley thinks back to when they switched bodies on the bench. He tries to recall his exact state of mind: happy, yes, triumphant even. Maybe a tad giddy. But also . . . that residual trauma from finding a burning bookshop, facing a life without his best friend. Sheer relief that they’d escaped. And a plea to Go—Sa—Someone. _I don’t want us to ever be separated again._

His horror must register on his face, and he wishes he had his blasted glasses on. He blinks once, twice, looks away.

“What’s wrong? Besides the obvious?” Aziraphale asks softly. 

Crowley doesn’t know what to say. For an instant, he thinks about dropping Aziraphale’s hand, but he will never cause Aziraphale pain if he can help it. The seconds stretch out to what feels like hours. 

“I think I might know what’s happening to us.” There’s nothing for it, really. Nothing they can find in any of Aziraphale’s old, dusty books is going to solve this problem. “It’s my fault.” 

Aziraphale looks at him for several beats of silence. “Whatever do you mean?” 

Crowley’s throat seizes up, his mouth trying to work out the words. No formation he can imagine will stop them from sounding like he hasn’t been in love with Aziraphale for six thousand years. 

“Do you think it would have been possible for one of us to . . . cause this simply by wishing for it?” 

Aziraphale’s brows knit together. “What are you saying? Are you implying that _you_ . . .” He trails off with a strange look on his face.

“You’re going to make me say it out loud,” Crowley mutters to himself. 

“Say what?” 

“It wasn’t intentional. But I may have . . . when we were switching back, had certain feelings about . . . remaining close to you.” He can’t watch Aziraphale while he says this. He looks instead at the dusty bedside table, the neat pile of books on it, the antique reading glasses. 

“About remaining—” 

“It was the bookshop, I think. Finding you gone, thinking you were dead. But it didn’t start then. It was a long time ago, embarrassingly long, really. Which is why telling you this now is so difficult, when it’s obvious that you never . . . that I . . . go too fast. So what I mean to say is, I’ve loved you forever, and I think I may have accidentally bonded us with an unintended demonic miracle.” His eyes are darting all over the room, looking for some sort of anchor and finding nothing substantial to latch on to. He can feel how hard the angel is gripping his hand, as though they’re on turbulent seas and not this too-still bed, this intimate space meant for lovers. “Say something.” 

“I can’t think of what to say.” 

“I told you this wasn’t your fault, angel.” 

“No. Not about that. I’ve . . . sensed your feelings for some time, but I thought it was the love of one friend for another. You’re saying it’s not . . . quite that.” 

“Not quite.” Crowley resists rolling his eyes. He fights back the urge to deny, to deflect. Honesty doesn’t come easily to him, not with this. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says breathlessly. “Oh.” 

Crowley chances a look at him, and Aziraphale is smiling. Beaming, even. And then he is touching Crowley’s face, his hand gentle. “I love you, too.” He drags his fingers down, across Crowley’s lips. There can be no mistaking the intention in his eyes. 

“You do?” Crowley murmurs against his fingertips. 

Aziraphale runs his thumb along the curve of Crowley’s chin, as though he is using his hands to memorise the sharp angle of the bone. “Yes, dearest.” 

Now it is Crowley’s turn to be inarticulate. “Oh.” 

“Would you mind very much if I kissed you?” 

“I wish you would.” 

Crowley tilts his head as their mouths find each other. His whole body lights up at the press of lips, the high, tight sound Aziraphale makes at the back of his throat. He has never kissed anyone either, has never wanted anyone else to be this close. He is, he thinks, probably terrible at it, but Aziraphale is kissing him back with unbridled enthusiasm, so he supposes it doesn’t really matter. 

He isn’t sure where to put his hands, restless travelers that they are, so he settles on Aziraphale’s shoulders, then his face, then the small of his back. There is a solidity to Aziraphale’s body that is very appealing. He is steady, so very _here_, and he isn’t going to break. Vaguely, Crowley registers he is trembling with desire and nerves, wanting to make this good for Aziraphale but also acutely aware he knows nothing about sex. If that is what they’re going to be having. It seems like things are headed that way. 

Sure, he’s seen enough sex between humans over the millennia and has fucked his own hand once or five thousand times, but this messy, burning, aching feeling of two beings desiring each other at the same time, together, is something entirely new. 

Experimentally, Crowley slides his tongue against Aziraphale’s lips, seeking entrance. Aziraphale freezes for a moment, and then with a soft groan of surrender opens his mouth. 

Aziraphale tastes better than Crowley could ever have imagined. He is sweet, and the curves of his body complement the hollows of Crowley’s own. Aziraphale’s hands tangle in Crowley’s hair, and Crowley is shocked through with heat when he feels the hardness pressing against his hip. He clutches Aziraphale tighter, wrapping his arms around his back and instinctively pulling until Aziraphale is under him, staring up with half-lidded eyes and a swollen mouth. 

“I’ve never done this,” Aziraphale says, licking his lower lip. His pupils are blown wide, irises nearly black. 

Crowley smiles down at him. He suspected, but it is gratifying all the same to hear. “Me neither.” 

Aziraphale’s ears turn pink. “Oh, Crowley. Don’t poke fun at me.” 

“I’m not, angel.” 

“You—in all these years, you’ve never?” 

“Never wanted to with anyone else. Seemed like a bit too much . . . effort, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I suppose I do. But you . . . do want this, with me?” 

Crowley grinds his hips down, lets Aziraphale feel his cock, hard and wanting, for the first time. “That enough answer for you?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes have gone glassy. “Oh, do that again, _please_.” 

Crowley does, this time making sure to angle just so, rubbing their erections together. Aziraphale’s nightshirt is rucked up around his thighs, and with just a thin layer of silk between them, the slide is delicious. He kisses Aziraphale again, then grows bolder, finding the buttons of the blasted tartan shirt and undoing them with trembling hands. Aziraphale is pulling at his clothes, too, and so he vanishes them with a demonic miracle. 

The tartan is discarded somewhere over the side of the bed. Their hands are on each other, tracing lines, learning how it feels to touch like this, to touch at all, really. They are making up for a hundred lifetimes. Crowley is overwhelmed by the new sensations: the hungry mouth colliding with his own, the leaking cock against his belly, little pink nipples under his fingers. 

“Do you want me to touch you here?” he asks. 

“Yes, yes.” 

He works both of them into hard nubs, makes Aziraphale gasp. He dips his thumb into the divot at the base of Aziraphale’s throat and seeks the pulse point with his tongue. 

“And here?” 

“Please.” 

Aziraphale is sweet, with just a hint of salt. His pulse flutters against Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley can’t stop himself from sucking harder, wanting to taste more. This too is a learning experience: the lesson, a bruise. 

There is little finesse to their thrusting as it grows more urgent. Aziraphale grips Crowley’s arse with both hands and pushes up to meet him. He is rosy in the gradually warming light; outside, it’s stopped raining. 

Crowley feels the heat coalescing in his gut as they rock together. He wonders, briefly, about the bond and whether this will help to return things to normal, but he pushes the thought away, not wanting to ruin the moment. He’s waited so long, has endured centuries of knowing this could never be. That it is happening at all is a miracle in itself. He has loved Aziraphale in so many ways. 

There was Aziraphale in the Garden, his softwhite feet and gentle arches, all nervous laughter and hesitant smiles. 

_Can I put my hand here?_

_Oh darling, anything._

In Golgotha and Mesopotamia, his battle with the ineffable plan written across his face in fine, worried lines. 

In Rome, his daring to reach out to Crowley in his darkest moments. 

_How can I make you feel good?_

_You are, you are._

At the Globe, secret glances that disappeared like a mirage as soon as Crowley looked. 

In France, his brashness, his foolishness, his hunger. 

At St James’s Park, his stubborn refusal to give Crowley the one thing that could destroy him. His willful misunderstanding. His fine, manicured hands. 

_Put your hands back on me, yes, like that. Oh, angel, you have no idea what you’re doing to me._

_Tell me._

There is another night at a church, soon to be a ruin. Was it more, even then? 

Could Crowley have misunderstood? 

They are not kissing now, simply breathing into each other’s mouths. Crowley whispers these questions over Aziraphale’s skin with the play of his hands, his too-hot breath. He is so close, ready to tip over the edge, when all of a sudden Aziraphale pushes at his shoulders, shoving him onto his back.

“Wha—” he starts to say, but Aziraphale is suddenly between his thighs, holding his hard prick with both hands. 

“Oh, my dear, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to taste you,” he says, and then his mouth descends.

Crowley stares, heartstopped with awe, as Aziraphale licks and sucks at him, moaning, eyes fluttering as though Crowley is a delicious meal. He tongues the head, pink on red, and the sight is too much. Crowley barely has time to warn Aziraphale as his toes curl and his orgasm bursts through him like an anvil shattering glass. He falls to pieces, groaning and shuddering as Aziraphale laps him up. 

“Simply delicious,” Aziraphale says, sounding pleased with himself, but there is a desperate timbre to his voice as he seeks another kiss. “Darling, I . . . please. I can’t wait another moment.” 

Still reeling from the aftermath of his own climax, Crowley welcomes the press of Aziraphale’s generous mouth, tastes himself on his tongue, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He reaches blindly between Aziraphale’s legs, grasps him and starts to stroke. In only seconds, Aziraphale is coming, pulsing warm onto Crowley’s hand and the space between their bodies. It is hardly a space at all. 

In Soho, Aziraphale is cautious. _Don’t destroy yourself. Don’t leave me here alone. Please use this wisely or don’t use it at all. _

_You go too fast for me._

They are lying together in the mess they’ve made of Aziraphale’s bed. Aziraphale keeps pressing soft kisses against his chest, his neck, his fingers. Each one sends a shiver through Crowley, a tiny point of warm pleasure that doesn’t seek to be anything more. Neither of them wants to let go for fear of what they might discover. 

“You are so lovely,” Aziraphale says with a contented sigh. “I could stay like this forever.” 

“You might have to.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stuff them back in. 

“Oh Crowley, is this a hardship for you? Shall we see if we’ve fixed the problem?”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, angel. But,” he says, with more nonchalance than he feels, “there’s only one way to find out.” 

They look at each other. Crowley scoots back until only their hands touch. He takes a deep breath, and they let go. 

The pain is less severe, but it still hits almost instantaneously. Crowley curses and grabs Aziraphale’s hand again. “Fuck. I’m ssssorry, angel.” 

“Please, there’s no need to punish yourself. It was . . . less intense, that time, for me at least.” 

“Yeah. Seemed to be.” 

“So, we’ll just have to do a lot more of this, perhaps?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows raise hopefully, and Crowley can’t hold back his smile. It vanishes, however, when he thinks of how long it might take, and what the ramifications of any continued bond might be. If their esteemed colleagues from either Heaven or Hell decide to pay another visit or perform another kidnapping, they will both be too vulnerable and sick to fight back. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth, trying not to imagine Aziraphale’s screams of pain, his own utter helplessness. 

“I think we need a more immediate solution, angel. Not that I want to get out of bed with you any time soon, but we can still do that after we figure this out.” 

Aziraphale pushes himself up onto one arm, sheets swaddling his full hips. There are bruises on his neck, and his hair is an utter disaster. He looks beautiful. “You have a suggestion?” 

“We should try it again. The switch.” 

“Right now?” 

Crowley nods hesitantly. “I suppose now’s as good a time as any.” 

“And when we switch back, you’ll . . .” 

“I’ll think . . . thinky thoughts. But in reverse? Or something. I’ll try not to make it worse, at the very least.” 

Aziraphale gives him a look. “You are a master of diligent planning.” 

“Did you have a better idea?” 

“Not really. But first, let’s have a spot of breakfast. I have some lovely fresh raspberry jam. After all, one must fortify the body to fortify the soul.” 

“That’s positively blasphemous, angel.” Crowley grins.

He can’t help but be thankful for the short reprieve. However, they soon discover that dressing and preparing breakfast, even something simple like tea and toast, is extremely difficult when the parties involved must remain touching at all times. Holding hands is right out. Crowley grips Aziraphale’s waist instead, crowding him from behind. He’s unable to resist kissing the bruises on Aziraphale’s throat, grabbing his soft middle and pulling him close. 

Aziraphale isn’t much more resolute. He deliberately pushes back against Crowley’s growing erection, offering his neck and lips shamelessly. They burn four slices of bread before they finally manage to stop kissing and caressing each other long enough to pay attention to the toaster. 

At the small dining table, they sit close together, knees knocking. Not content with that, Crowley seeks out the tender skin of Aziraphale’s wrist, tracing the blue veins. He touches the pulse there, the one that Aziraphale has believed into being. 

Aziraphale bites his lower lip. 

“What, angel?” Crowley says, running a long finger up and down Aziraphale’s forearm. “You have something on your mind?” 

“Well, I was just thinking that . . . I have a confession to make. You, perhaps, weren’t the only one to think certain thoughts at a particular moment of . . . transition.” 

“You’ve got to be joking.” 

“I, er. I’d been discorporated, you see. And I didn’t fancy sharing a body with anyone other than you ever again. And maybe I wished . . . not that I want to stay like this forever, mind. I know I shouldn’t _like_ being bound to you this way, but . . . I do.” 

For the first time in six thousand years, Crowley can’t think of a thing to say. He flickers his tongue and closes his mouth on a faint hiss of disbelief. Aziraphale is still talking. 

“And it’s very flattering, that you should want me so much to think the same thing. A bit romantic, really. And well, I _like_ you touching me this way. I like it very much indeed.” 

Crowley thinks back over all those long years, the way that Aziraphale would go out of his way to avoid even the most cursory touches, always carefully preserving that boundary between   
them. With a pang of fear, he wonders if the bond has somehow made Aziraphale more compliant, made him want this when he really doesn’t. “But you never did before.” 

Aziraphale shakes his head, as though reading his thoughts. “It wasn’t that I didn’t like it. I worried I would like it too much, you see. And now I know I had cause to fear.” 

“You’re sure. You don’t think it’s—something I did, during the switch?”

“I think I know my own mind, Crowley.” Aziraphale looks vaguely affronted. “And I know that I’ve wanted you for quite some time.” 

“How long?” 

“Pardon?” 

Crowley takes a bite of his toast, chewing it slowly for effect. “You heard what I asked.” 

“Well. I should say, since that night in Rome. After Petronius's. When we went back to my rooms and drank until dawn, that first time. Do you remember?” 

“Of course.” Though centuries have passed, Crowley can recall that night so clearly, it might have been only yesterday. Aziraphale had been very drunk. So drunk, in fact, that he had fallen asleep with his head propped on Crowley’s shoulder just as the sun rose. 

“You were gone when I woke.” 

“Yes, well. It wasn’t easy to leave. But I didn’t want to . . . take advantage.” He can still smell the fragrance of the air that night—smoke and crushed lilies. Aziraphale had picked a bunch of them on their way back from eating oysters, had slipped one of the large white flowers behind his ear. Crowley had taken it, kept it with him for another two hundred years, until it finally disintegrated to dust.

“Oh, I would very much have liked that, I think.” Aziraphale gives him a small, crafty smile. 

Crowley slouches further in his seat, slotting his thigh more fully against Aziraphale’s. “You should have said.” 

“I never would have.” 

“So, what you’re telling me is that you put yourself in a compromising position with the hope that, what, the wily demon would have his wicked way with you?” 

“I don’t know that I formulated the idea so consciously, but perhaps.” 

Crowley groans. “You are the most maddening creature.” 

“And what about you?” 

“Hmm?” Crowley brings Aziraphale’s hand to his lips. There is a small bit of jam on his thumb, and on a whim Crowley sucks it into his mouth. Aziraphale is watching him raptly, a faint blush tinting his cheeks.

“You like this, angel?” Crowley kisses his wrist, flicks his tongue out to taste. 

“Yes. _Crow_ley, but don’t try to deflect. You said before that you’ve had feelings for an embarrassingly long time. How long exactly?” 

“Since the beginning.” Crowley says simply. “You know that.” 

“Please, my dear, let’s go back to bed.”


	4. Chapter 4

The sheets are still rumpled from the morning. Aziraphale pushes Crowley down onto the soft down pillows and kisses him with tongue and teeth, ravenous. They vanish their clothing in their eagerness, and Crowley is amazed again at the heat of Aziraphale’s body, how sturdy and substantial he is. For so long, he has seen Aziraphale as someone to be protected, but this angel pressing him down into the mattress is not at all like that fragile lily in Rome. He is strong and full of desire, and to be the focus of that intensity is heady. 

They kiss and touch each other until they are both aching, wanting more. Crowley knows exactly where he wants to be, but he lets Aziraphale take the lead. It feels freeing in a way to relinquish control. Neither of them knows the answers, but they are finding their way together. 

“I’m not . . . sure what . . .” Aziraphale is panting, glassy-eyed. His prick is hot as fire, pressing against Crowley’s stomach. 

“Anything you want.” 

“Well, then, I would like very much to be inside you.” 

Crowley groans. “Yesss.” 

“But don’t we need . . .? Isn’t there . . .?” 

“That’s what demonic miracles are for, angel,” Crowley grits from between his teeth, focusing his energy on the space between his legs. He feels himself relax and grow slick, and when Aziraphale reaches down tentatively to touch him, he hisses and opens his legs, suddenly burning for it. 

“Oh. Oh my.” Aziraphale tentatively pushes the tip of one finger inside. “You’re so _warm_ here, dearest. So lovely and ah—is it hurting you?” 

“No, you can do another.” Crowley has touched himself this way before. He knows how much he can take. But it’s entirely different, having Aziraphale’s hand there instead of his own, being unable to predict what will happen next. 

Aziraphale’s face is concentrated, rapt. He slides the finger in deeper and then adds another. “Like this?” 

“Fuck, angel.” Crowley flexes and wriggles, seeking full penetration. He’s never felt so needy in his life, isn’t entirely sure he’s comfortable with it. Aziraphale’s hand is moving in maddeningly slow, gentle pulses. “Just there.” Crowley groans when Aziraphale finds the sensitive bundle of nerves inside him and rubs it with his fingertips. 

A dawning smile of comprehension brightens Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, you _like_ that, don’t you, you beautiful thing.” 

“I think I’d like it even more if you got on with it.” 

Aziraphale looks slightly nervous, his blush travelling from his cheeks to mottle his chest and shoulders. “I’m afraid . . . I don’t think it will last very long. You’ve got me rather . . . excited, my dear.” 

The idea that Aziraphale is already so close, just from touching him this way, makes Crowley’s own cock twitch and leak against his belly. “That’sss not going to be a problem.” 

Aziraphale withdraws his hand, and then, while Crowley is still reeling from the loss, pushes inside him in one thrust. Crowley arches off the bed, feeling the strain and the delicious pressure of accommodating Aziraphale’s girth. He feels so utterly full, he can’t think of anything but the place where they are finally joined. He clenches down around the cock inside him, and Aziraphale gasps. “Oh, my love. You feel so good.” 

“Angel, you can move.” 

“But I will . . . I’ll _come_.” 

“Do it. Pleassse.” 

Aziraphale closes his eyes and thrusts, and his face contorts with pleasure as he shudders and cries out. Crowley can feel the warm pulsing deep inside, filling him up. He grips his own cock and, with only a few strokes, he comes all over them both. 

Instead of pulling out, however, Aziraphale stays where he is, crushing Crowley to the bed with his weight. Crowley instinctively wraps his legs around Aziraphale’s waist, keeping him anchored as his orgasm starts to subside. Surprisingly, Aziraphale still feels hard inside of him.

“I think . . . I think I can go again. If you want,” Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley’s lips. 

Suddenly, an idea occurs to him. “Aziraphale. What if we try the switch?” 

The angel’s eyes widen. “You mean right now?” 

“Yes, well, if the original miracle was intended to join us together, maybe now that we are—uh, very close—”

“It will be easier to reverse it.” 

Crowley licks his lips. “If we both think the same thing at the same time . . .” 

“We can sever the bond. Be close to each other, but of our own free will.” 

“Exactly that.” 

Aziraphale shifts slightly, and his cock drags against Crowley’s prostate. His cock has started to fill again; luckily, angels and demons aren’t bound by human refractory periods. 

“All right. Let’s try.” 

Aziraphale starts to move his hips, gently fucking into Crowley as they stare into each other’s eyes. The sensation is hard to describe: a bit tingly, a bit cold, almost as if winter air is rushing over and underneath his skin. And then, the sweet moment where he feels Aziraphale’s consciousness touch his own. They twine together, and time and space cease to exist; their bodies no longer matter. There has never been anything as good as this; this mingling of spirits, this homecoming. Crowley feels entirely, utterly known. He shudders and shakes, coming back into being, and when he blinks open his eyes again, his own face stares down at him, but it is Aziraphale he sees behind the yellow-slit eyes. 

“This is interesting,” he says in Aziraphale’s voice. Aziraphale’s body feels different than his own, responds to fucking in a different way. If possible, he feels even greedier, opening up and taking the cock inside him with needy, breathless gasps. Oh, he is going to have a good time reversing their positions, now that he knows what Aziraphale’s body craves.

“Very interesting indeed,” Aziraphale replies in Crowley’s voice, though the timbre is slightly off. He gives a more forceful thrust, and the whole bed shakes. 

“Yeah, ah—like that.” 

Aziraphale complies, using Crowley’s hips to really drive into him, fucking him with purposeful, smooth strokes that make Crowley’s eyes roll back in his head. Aziraphale’s head, really. Which is a bit disconcerting. He is fucking Crowley like Crowley wants to fuck Aziraphale, wants to fill him up, stretch him, make him _his_ own. He can almost feel the cock inside him—his own, but who really cares—grow harder. It is strange, beyond erotic. Maybe a little too kinky for Aziraphale, if Crowley is any judge of his own expressions. He looks completely wrecked but trying not to be. 

“You like it, angel?” Crowley knows he’s being devious. “You like seeing yourself like this.” 

“Cr-Crowley, you absolute fiend.” 

“It’s just us here. Just me. No reason not to like it. Fuck—feelsss good.” The words sound even more filthy uttered in Aziraphale’s posh voice. Crowley groans and touches his cock—Aziraphale’s cock. It’s so much fatter and wetter than his own. He would happily stay in this body longer, but at the back of his mind he knows they need to switch back. 

“I suppose it does have an . . . odd appeal,” Aziraphale finally admits. 

“Ngk. Knew you liked it. Now. let me . . . let me just try to focus. You might have to slow down a little.” 

Aziraphale complies with obvious difficulty, slowing his movements to a gentle roll. Crowley closes his eyes, feels the merging of their bodies, the atoms still separating them though they are joined as closely as two people can be. He lets his mind relax, goes back to that day on the bench when he’d been so desperate for connection. They have it now, and they need to be free, because that is the only way to really be together. 

“Now,” he whispers, and arches up for a kiss.

This time, the merging takes longer. Crowley finds himself floating, only gently aware of their bodies moving together. It isn’t quite clear who is inside who, or how, but it feels utterly brilliant, like nothing he has ever known. They are one spirit, one body, and then, slowly, slowly they begin to separate. 

Crowley feels himself settling, coming back to himself. He focuses on the pull of the thread between them. _Make it clean this time, make it a clean break_. 

“Oh! Crowley!” Aziraphale’s eyes are blazing so brightly that Crowley almost has to look away. He stares, mesmerised, at this holy creature who has somehow decided to love him back. If this is the last thing he sees, it will be worth it.

It is not until the light dims that Crowley realises they have both come a second time, and he feels Aziraphale start to soften and slip out, leaving a trail of wetness that smells suspiciously like ambrosia. An instant later, he feels a warm, tingling sensation, a sudden perception of dryness.

“Frivolous miracles, angel?” 

Aziraphale smiles sleepily at him and shrugs. 

Crowley curves his body around Aziraphale’s, and for the first time in many years, he wonders how it would feel to shift into snake form. He does find it rather relaxing. And it would be nice to be able to twine around Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

He shelves the thought for later. 

“Do you think it worked?” Aziraphale finally asks. 

“Only one way to find out.” 

Reluctantly, they move apart. Crowley is the last to relinquish his hold and braces himself for the oncoming pain and nausea. 

It doesn’t come. 

“Oh thank the Lord,” Aziraphale whispers. 

Crowley smirks, trying to disguise the feeling of absolute relief that washes over him. “She had nothing to do with it, angel.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, my dear.” Aziraphale gathers the sheet around his waist, smoothing it out primly. He looks utterly debauched, so voluptuous and lovely that Crowley feels another, faint stirring of his prick. And, damn him—his heart. 

“How do you figure?” 

“Well. The Almighty, as you know, works in—”

“Don’t you dare say it.” 

“Mysterious ways.” Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. 

“Same difference,” Crowley grumbles, grabbing Aziraphale and pushing him back down to the mattress. “You can’t mean to tell me you think She wanted us to shag like rabbits?” 

“I can’t tell you She didn’t want that, either.” 

Crowley is quiet for a moment, tracing a line on Aziraphale’s downy chest. “It’s good to see you haven’t lost your faith. Even after all this.” 

“Well, I’m no longer blind to the rather more sinister workings of Heaven, I can assure you. I want no part of it. And certainly I would rather Fall completely than have to consort with the likes of Gabriel or Michael again.” He shudders. “But I do believe that the Almighty is still up there, and that all of this . . . means something.” 

“And what if I can’t believe that?” Crowley asks him. He stills his hand, feels for the rhythm of Aziraphale’s heart under his palm. 

“Oh, Crowley. I think you do.” 

“Stop trying to think the best of me.” He tries to inject some venom into the words but finds it very difficult to do with an angel petting his hair.

“I know you, you wily old serpent, warts and all. And I love you. Don’t ever forget it.” 

Crowley doesn’t forget it later that day when Aziraphale holds his hand as they walk through the park after dinner, sated and happy from a day of pleasure and a good meal. 

He doesn’t forget it in winter, when he moves into Aziraphale’s flat, taking his plants and a few souvenirs, but leaving the rest behind. 

He doesn’t forget it when he flickers his snake tongue and basks warm in the sunlight, curled up on Aziraphale’s desk in the bookshop.

He doesn’t forget it that following spring at Newt and Anathema’s wedding, or years later, at Adam’s graduation, as they stand side-by-side. 

He certainly doesn’t forget it when Aziraphale, all fumbling nerves and earnestness, gets down on one knee with a ring. _It’s so silly, I know. So human. But I—I would love to be your husband, my dear. We don’t have to do anything formal, if you don’t like. Oh—_ And Crowley swallows his protestations with a kiss. 

He doesn’t forget it when they move to a cottage in the South Downs. Or in the morning when he wakes up to Aziraphale riding him, slow and steady, his face a wreck of pleasure. Or when he learns to bake Aziraphale his favourite scones. 

There is an eternity stretched out before them, and Crowley doesn’t forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! I hope you enjoyed <3
> 
> Please feel free to drop me a line on Tumblr or Twitter @Magnolia822


End file.
